


out of the blue (and into your pulse)

by crookedspoon, LullabyDance



Series: Exchange Fics [66]
Category: Batman: White Knight (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Digital Art, Hand Jobs, Identity Porn, M/M, POV Dick Grayson, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2019, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyDance/pseuds/LullabyDance
Summary: Jason is still alive. It's clear that he wants nothing to do with his former life and yet, Dick feels compelled to find him. He hopes the reasons become clear when he does.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Series: Exchange Fics [66]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/51139
Comments: 17
Kudos: 216
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	out of the blue (and into your pulse)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).



> When you get to the art, right click and choose "Open Link in New Tab" to see a bigger version without losing your place. (Yes, there's art!)
> 
> Shoutout to S for beta-reading! Thank you so much!

Fog washes out the cityscape and curtails visibility beyond the next corner when Dick kicks down the bike stand and takes off his helmet. It's not much of a surprise. The air still carries a hint of frost from the time Neo-Joker and Mad Hatter stole Mr. Freeze's tech and iced over Gotham.

Dick rubs his exposed forearms and wonders how this neighborhood fared in all of that. It's one of the more neglected districts with its crumbling facades and dirt piling high in the alleys. Hardware stores that look like they belong in the 80s cram themselves between dilapidated buildings and not a greengrocer's in sight. Not that Dick's line of sight stretches very far in this fog.

Despite the low visual clarity, one building stands out like a lighthouse in a storm: _Gotham City Garage,_ the go-to place for any kind of automotive repairs. There may no longer be any repairs happening tonight, as the doors are already closed, but Dick is not one to be deterred so easily. He didn't spend all this time looking for this place only to turn around before the finish line. The least he can do is try his luck. He might not find what he is looking for, but at least he'll know. 

Donning his GTO cap and his best smile, he walks toward the doors that are still shining with light. Dick doesn't need much more than this one sign of life.

In the cold moisture of the air, the absence of his domino makes him feel naked and exposed, just as the residue of spirit gum makes the skin around his eyes feel tight. It becomes more noticeable when he smiles and the awareness alone adds a layer between him and his performance that might ruin it in the end, but he can't think of that now.

And anyway, since when is he this nervous?

The bell above the door cheerfully announces his arrival.

"Sorry, we're closed," a voice calls from the back.

"That's not what the sign says," Dick replies, pointing pointlessly, since no one is around to read the jaunty script that invites you inside.

"It does from where I'm standing," the voice says as it draws closer. The guy it belongs to rolls in from the back room on a swivel chair. A rather handsome guy, if Dick might add. With light blue eyes chilling like the frost outside.

He blinks. He didn't know what he was expecting, but a smartypants wasn't it. Dick hopes he's a smartypants and not stupidly assuming that the 'Sorry, we're closed' that he can see from inside is the same message a customer coming from outside would see.

The tilt to his eyebrows and his lips suggests that the guy is aware of the provocative nature of his statement. Dick quirks his eyebrow right back at him although his cap hides it. Is that any way to talk to a potential customer? Well, maybe Dick has earned it for coming in so late.

"So," he says, drawing out the syllable, attempting to strike a balance between genuine curiosity and sarcasm to match the guy's own. "Since you're sitting, does that mean you're still open?"

"That depends on what you're here for, _officer."_

Ah, it's the uniform. Dick is still in his GTO getup, the blue of his Nightwing emblem hidden behind his zipped-up jacket. Still, there was a strange edge in the guy's voice as if he were challenging Dick to say the wrong thing without seeming to be doing that. 

In the blink of an eye, Dick runs down everything he associates with this district and its crime stats, which isn't much. But this is Gotham, and you don't need to look up the latest trends to know that corruption is rife within the police department. The guy is more than aware. He seems casual enough, reclining in his swivel chair and pretending not to eye Dick too critically, but his right shoulder is lowered suspiciously toward the counter.

Even without his lenses, Dick can tell that that's where the guy has taped his insurance against crooks who want to shake him down.

"I just wanted to get an oil change for my bike," he says quickly. "You come highly recommended by the neighborhood, so I thought I'd pop by and check you out myself."

"Check me out, huh?" the guy asks as if he'd caught Dick staring, but he does relax a little.

"The shop, I mean."

"You don't look like you're from around here." His tone implies that he would have seen Dick around, which in turn indicates that the guy is intimate with his surroundings – that he knows everyone and that everyone knows him.

Which would correspond to the research Dick has done on the place. Not for the first time Dick wonders why this place hasn't raised _any_ flag in the Batcomputer, red or otherwise, if it's so damn popular. That is, if Dick actually hits pay dirt.

"Word spreads."

"I'm sure it does," the guy says, still not moving a muscle, apart from playing with a pen he's picked up. Dick is starting to get ticked off.

"Look, if you're not willing to accommodate, just say so and I'll take my business elsewhere."

"You could also come back in the morning during regular business hours. I'll be much more _accommodating_ then."

"Once I drive off this lot, I won't be coming back."

It's a lie, of course. Or at least, Dick won't be coming back when anyone's around to witness it. The guy seems to know it – he's probably heard many such declarations only to have the other party coming back, tail between their legs. His eyes flicker down Dick's body in a way that makes Dick wonder whether he's checking out his ass. It wouldn't be the first time someone appreciated seeing the back of him as he left.

"Good luck finding anyone else open at this time," the guy says, swiveling from side to side and peering at Dick through his dark fringe, as though waiting for Dick to rise to the challenge.

"Technically, you're not open anymore, as you said yourself."

"Yeah, but you're still here and we're still negotiating." Wow, that's a shit-eating grin if Dick ever saw one. Kind of makes Dick want to punch his teeth in but that's a) not what he's here for, and b) would reflect badly on the GCPD – which he is representing by wearing the uniform of their special task force.

"You call this negotiating?" Dick asks. Well, if that's his take, Dick is not going to argue. Gives him something to work with at the very least. "Okay, how about this: if you're good, I'll double your asking price for your trouble. And I'll throw in a six-pack for us to ring in the end of your shift."

"Us?" The guy quirks an eyebrow and his sinfully plump lips spread into a grin as if he thought Dick were flirting with him.

Maybe he is, at that. "Did you think I'd leave my precious bike with you unsupervised?" Dick has to stop himself from throwing a wink over the counter.

"You're gonna have to if you want to get that beer." The guy finally gets up from his chair, giving Dick the opportunity to appreciate how tall and broad-shouldered he is. Before, Dick couldn't decide how much of his mass was an illusion created by the yellow light falling on the folds of his red zip-up hoodie and how much of it was real. "There's a store on the corner that's open all night. You can even reach it by foot, no need to take your bike. And before you say anything: the sooner I can get started, the sooner we're done, the sooner you can have your precious bike back and I can close up."

Dick huffs. "Okay, fine."

The guy lets Dick bring his bike in through the side door. The space inside the garage is bigger than it looks from outside, although it might just be the interplay of shadows and light.

"Don't make me regret this," the guy warns him.

"I'm offering you an easy job and easy money. Not sure what's to regret about it."

"Too easy, maybe. You might be here to rob or murder me for all I know."

It might be a valid concern in the area – or anywhere in Gotham, really – but it strikes Dick as a paranoid thing to say. "You look like you could handle yourself."

The guy throws him an appraising look and again, his eyes sweep low. "You look like you'd put up a fair fight. I might even break a sweat."

_Phew. Hold your horses, loverboy._

Dick guesses if they haven't been flirting before, they're definitely flirting now. The guy is insufferable, but at the same time he's attractive enough that Dick wouldn't mind getting his hands on him. Provided he can gag him first. As pretty as that mouth is, it needs a goddamn permit to be handled.

Belatedly, the guy extends his hand.

"I'm Jason, by the way."

Dick suddenly feels like the air is punched out of him.

He concentrates on parking his bike, mind already spiraling. So it's really him – Dick finally meets his predecessor, the first Robin, face to face. It couldn't just be a coincidence, running into someone with the same name who happened to be working at a place Dick was canvassing; now that he is really looking, the resemblance to the youth in the pictures Bruce keeps in his study is unmistakable.

"Dick," he says and returns the hand shake.

"Woah, there. No need to be rude, okay?"

Dick rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he forgets. "It's not rude, it's my name."

He's surprised to find that the guy – _Jason_ – is not attempting to crush his bones in his hand. Given his attitude, Dick would have expected to have another show of dominance at his hand, quite literally. Jason's grip does suggest strength, but it's on the looser side of firm. Probably a wise move in the service industry.

He claps Dick's shoulder. "Couldn't help it. You must get that a lot."

"You think?"

"I _think_ you should go get that beer," Jason says and turns to Dick's bike. "This won't take long and I'm beginning to get thirsty."

Dick is grateful for the change of topic. It's a good thing he offered to get them refreshments because it gives him the opportunity to slip out and clear his head for a bit.

The cold air outside helps with that. Dick no longer knows why it was so important that he come here. Ever since he learned that Jason is still alive, he's spent every waking moment trying to find him, even when Bruce wouldn't. And to what end? So he could make sure that Jason is doing well for himself and take that knowledge back to Bruce, to ease his mind at least a little? Or so he could demand answers from Jason? So he could lay all his bottled-up anger at Jason's feet and demand he apologize for hiding away all these years? All these years that Dick has spent trying to console Bruce in his grief over a person who wasn't even dead, who just wanted nothing to do with him. A person who knew that staying away would ultimately hurt more than if he had actually died, and who used that to effect.

How callous can one person be?

What had to have been done to that person to make them that callous?

Dick has spent years living in Jason's shadow – the shadow of a ghost – trying to compete with the pristine memory of a flawless son who always carried out Bruce's orders to perfection. No matter what Dick did, he could never be good enough.

Dick had been on the losing side from day one, but more than that, Dick had been barred from doing so many things that Bruce deemed "too dangerous" because god forbid if Dick so much as chipped a nail. Dick gets it. Bruce was afraid to lose him, too. But locking a person up for their own safety does no one any favors in the long run. All it does is strain relationships and stunt growth.

Jason's decision to stay away did not only hurt Bruce. It hurt all of them. They all grieved. Even if Dick and Barbara never knew him like Bruce and Alfred did, they grieved for him all the same, shared Bruce and Alfred's pain, and wondered how much different their lives would have been if Jason had still been alive when Dick became part of the family. Rationally, he knows that this version of history would have come with its own hardships and struggles, but he idealizes it nonetheless, imagining happier, or in any case lighter, versions of himself and Bruce and Alfred. None of them would have had to live with the consequences of losing someone important to them.

His hands are shaking when he opens the door to the kiosk. And not from the cold.

It feels surreal, walking through the bright aisles where cheerful colors pop out at him while he is quietly seething with the resentment he has tried not to acknowledge for years. Yes, he'd resented Jason for dying and leaving Bruce a hollow wreck, unable to be there for Dick the way Dick needed it, and he's felt guilty about that ever since.

Now that he knows it's all a bullshit lie meant to hurt Bruce, he feels vindicated in his resentment.

But that's not all he feels, he realizes as he stops in front of the rows and rows up beer bottles.

He feels sick. Not only because he's believed a lie for so long and had to suffer because of it. No, it's worse than that.

It's that he understands.

Bruce is a lot of things, but most of all he's a handful. Several handfuls. Fact is, he's not easy to deal with. Ever. The decisions he makes, the things he keeps from his family, the half-truths... There are so many secrets, so many layers to everything that he never fully trusts anyone with, maybe not even Alfred. But as a partner, to only be used when it's convenient and discarded when it's not, under the pretense that it's too dangerous – well, it's not something that fosters much confidence.

If this were not the life that Dick had chosen, if he were any less committed to fighting for the good of the city and the people in it... he might have walked out, too. Completely. Walked away and never come back, no goodbye letter, no return address, nothing. Just go somewhere, find a job, and start over, away from it all.

The way Jason did. 

Except that Jason didn't start over away from it all. He's been hiding right under their very noses all this time, and none of them ever noticed.

Dick wonders how that made Jason feel. Did he have a good chuckle whenever he thought of pulling a fast one on them, or did it make him feel abandoned, like they didn't even care enough to see?

Dick shakes himself. This is no headspace to be in if he wants to find out more about this Jason. Maybe the beer will help him soothe the raging torrent of emotions he is trying to compartmentalize.

He greets the cashier with a smile and a comment about the weather that is met in kind. Small pleasantries like this help him refocus. The clipping wind outside does, too.

There's still the uncertainty. The Jason he's met might not be the Jason he's looking for, despite the resemblance Dick thought he saw; to confirm his hunch he will need strong enough evidence. In any case, it would be wise to appear unbiased towards him. If he's not Jason Todd, Dick has no reason to feel bias. And even if he is, Dick doesn't want to tip him off just yet.

By the time he returns to the garage, Jason has secured his bike on a raised platform and run a number of checks on it already. He seems to be inspecting the tire wear now while the oil is still draining. Dick seizes the opportunity to look around the garage. Not much more than Jason's work station is lit but from what Dick can see it's a clean and orderly space filled with neatly labeled boxes stored on shelves that speak of discipline and care.

He leverages two bottles open with the cap of another and walks towards Jason, making sure to tread cautiously and telegraph his movements. He doesn't know what Jason has been through since the Joker tortured him or if he has been seeking any help to cope with that kind of trauma, but either way, he finds it best to give Jason ample opportunity to notice him. When he does, Dick wordlessly hands him a bottle. They clink bottoms, then each have a sip.

Jason is sitting on a stool with wheels in front of Dick's motorcycle, rolling this way and that. The storage heater next to him has made him ditch the zip hoodie. It's now tied around his middle, bisecting the line of black his clothes create. His black shirt and black pants cling indecently to strong shoulders and strong thighs, and Dick finds himself distracted by the definition of Jason's arms.

"Quite the beauty you got there," Jason says and takes another swig. His Adam's apple bobs low as he swallows.

"I know," Dick replies, trying to unglue his gaze from Jason's throat.

"Not something you can afford on a regular police salary."

Dick's eyebrows shoot up. If he's asking whether Dick is a corrupt cop, he has a rather bold way of going about it. "Special task force, baby." Not that he, being a vigilante, would ever see a penny of it.

"What's so special about it?" Jason asks without seeming to be interested as he replaces the air filter.

"Same as any: high risk, high payout."

Jason looks at him as though saying 'Come on, man. You gotta give me more than that.'

There's one thing Dick would like to brag about. Perhaps it's his hyperawareness of who he is and who Jason might have been that makes him hesitate. He has to shut out all that noise to be convincing. To Jason, he's just a police officer, and Jason is just a mechanic. Normal people gossip or gripe about vigilante business all the time; this should be no different.

Ever the aerialist, Dick takes a leap.

"The sweetest thing about it, though, is that you get your own Batmobile," he says with a broad grin.

"Get the fuck out," Jason exclaims. It seems practiced, but Dick might be reading too much into it. "And you're still driving around on this? I mean, no offense, but c'mon, a Batmobile?"

"Batmobile's work only," Dick laments. "No joyrides, I'm afraid."

"Too bad. Imagine the crowds you could pick up with a Batmobile."

Dick gives a low laugh. "Not much space inside the Batmobile for crowds. Or to get up to much of anything aside from driving really fast." Maybe the beer is starting to get to Dick's head, because he adds, "Besides, I prefer drawing crowds based on my own merits."

Jason's eyes positively _rake_ over Dick's body. "And how's that going for you?"

"As well as can be expected when you're working all the time." Dick shrugs and lifts the bottle back to his lips. He no longer feels the chill, even though he's nowhere close to the storage heater.

"I hear ya."

"Oh? At least the people you meet here aren't all criminals."

"Does that include or exclude the rest of the police force?"

Dick smiles pleasantly and chugs the rest of his beer. Just because all of Gotham knows about the state of the police department, it's not his place to confirm or deny. Instead, he gets a refill, pulls up a swivel stool and rolls up to Jason. He smells good. Like motor oil and laundry detergent. It reminds Dick of Alfred waiting for him and Bruce in the Batcave.

He pushes the pang of sadness away. He's not going to think about how Alfred never had the chance to see what had become of Jason. He exhales shakily. He can do this.

"So, doc. Anything that needs fixing right away?"

"I'll tell you when I'm done. But so far it looks like you're good for another couple of months before you need anything replaced."

"That's good to hear."

The alcohol is beginning to make Dick's head swim. He can't remember the last time he had a bite to eat. Fuck. Dick needs to slow down, or else Jason is going to think he's a lightweight. Not that it matters what Jason thinks. It's too late to fall back into that admiration he had for the original Robin when he first started working with Bruce. This is now. And now is different. Dick is older, and he's pissed off. But he doesn't want to be. He's spent enough time rattled by his anger.

"How long have you worked here?" he asks, just to find some neutral ground.

"Fishing for my qualifications now?"

"Just making small talk."

"Since I opened the damn place."

"This is your—oh."

"What? Didn't think a guy like me could run a business?"

"You just look awfully young for an entrepreneur." Dick spins around on his stool. Big mistake. His vision keeps on spinning.

Just like that, their talk spirals out from there and it's everything Dick can do to keep up. They touch on everything from Jason's education to sports to the people who work for him. It's a pleasant arc that even tickles some laughter out of Jason on occasion. Dick is not gonna lie, he's hopelessly attracted to that laugh.

Well, he's attracted to the whole package and he's been thinking about nothing than sliding onto those strong thighs for the past fifteen minutes. He bets Jason could lift them both off the stool hands-free, to carry Dick... it doesn't matter where; he could take Dick up against his bike for all he cares.

Heat pulses through Dick. Whoo, that's embarrassing, having R-rated thoughts about the person sitting next to you. He wants to take off his gloves and wipe his sweaty palms over his knees, wants to take the beer bottle and hold it against his flushed cheeks to cool down.

He wants to leave.

"If my bike's good to go, I'll be out of your hair now."

Dick stands, perhaps a little too quickly, because a sudden wave of vertigo hits him. He grips Jason's shoulder for support and maybe he shouldn't have.

"Sorry." He takes it back immediately, but the damage is done. Jason noticed his momentary lack of control.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, because I have to finish my inspections in the morning."

"You're grounding my bike?"

"Yup." Jason stems his fists on his hips as if daring Dick to challenge him. "That won't be a problem for you, right? Since you're obviously unfit to drive, but smart enough to know that. Which means you're also smart enough to leave your bike in my care until you've sobered up."

Dick opens his mouth to say something but sets it again. No use arguing. "Can you call me a cab at least? I'm not gonna find my way home in that fog."

"Or I could offer you my couch for the night," Jason suggests almost hesitantly, peering at Dick through his dark lashes before sweeping his bangs from his forehead and thrusting his chin out. "See it as compensation."

Dick frowns. That's a development he did not anticipate. "Suddenly not afraid of getting robbed anymore, are you?"

"I think I can take you in your current condition," Jason says and pokes Dick's chest. "Easy."

"I can still kick your ass." Dick draws himself up to his full height – and still has to tilt his head up in order to stare Jason into submission. Not that he thinks Jason _can_ be stared into submission, but just because it's not gonna happen doesn't have to mean that Dick is not at least gonna try.

"Boy, I so much as _breathe_ in your direction, you'll keel over." Jason is now poking Dick's cap, prodding it until it slips off Dick's head. Challenge accepted.

"Wanna try me?"

Maybe it's the beer, maybe it's the tension crackling between them, maybe it's him feeling as fucked up as he does and wanting to do something about it, but he's not at all surprised to hear the suggestive lilt to his voice. It's like he's made up his mind to see where this attraction leads even before he became consciously aware of it.

Jason's insufferably knowing grin grows wider, as if he's seen this development from a mile away and is pleased with himself to be proven right.

"If by 'try you' you mean 'take a bite out of you,'" he says in a low, equally suggestive voice as he steps even farther into Dick's space until he's occupying all of it, "then yeah, I wanna."

Their lips are close enough to touch and Dick suddenly notices how hot he is beneath his uniform when Jason snakes his arm around Dick's waist, just below his jacket.

"I hope _you_ don't mean that in a literal way," Dick says, and every syllable brushes his lips against Jason's, inevitably, like mist dispersing in sunlight, and Dick similarly feels like he might vanish in the heat of their breaths if it weren't for the solidness of Jason's body – the arm around his waist, the hand at his neck, no doubt feeling his pulse tap-tap-tapping against his palm, and finally, _finally_ the mouth bridging the hair's breadth gap to his own, since no more syllables needed to be spoken between them.

Dick moans into the kiss, throws his arms around Jason's neck and holds him just as close, fingers stealing into the floppy hair above Jason's undercut. He flexes them, frustrated that he's still wearing his gloves and therefore unable to glory in the texture of the bristles.

Their boots squeak and scuffle on the floor as Jason backs him into something hard that knocks the breath from his lungs – breath that is in exceedingly short supply. Jason keeps stealing it with his clever lips and tongue, and Dick knows he used to be good at this thing, too, but it's like he forgot how all of his muscles work. Fuck, he can't be _that_ drunk, can he?

As if he were thinking the same, Jason draws back and for a tense moment Dick wonders what he was doing wrong, but Jason just leans his forehead against Dick's and groans.

"If you keep doing that thing with your tongue," he murmurs and brushes his thumb over Dick's slick bottom lip, tracing the ghost of his teeth marks, "I'm afraid I'm not gonna last much longer."

He tugs Dick's lip down and releases it, watching hungrily as Dick sucks it back between his own teeth. He kisses him once more, hard, then places the palm of his right hand on Dick's breastbone to keep him in place. 

"Stay," he says, as if that simple gesture had hooked Dick to the wall. In a way it had. Dick feels his heart knock against the phantom pressure of Jason's hand. "I just need to lock up."

Dick has noticed it earlier, when Jason was checking the chain adjustment of Dick's bike, but it didn't register until now because Dick has been preoccupied with processing all the other impressions Jason and the surroundings made on him: Jason has strong, well-formed hands – a caretaker's hands.

Why that of all things would stand out to him, Dick has no idea. It's not even a clue as to his past, unless Bruce were somehow to confirm that he had had the same thoughts about Jason's hands when he was younger. Which would be weird. Perhaps not much weirder than Dick's own focus on the matter, but weirder nonetheless. At least Dick has come to terms with wanting strange things.

And right now he wants Jason's hands on him, no matter where.

But Jason's hands are still occupied with locking up, keys jingling in his palm. Dick strides toward the windows and pulls the blinds. He doesn't care who sees them but the mere act of blocking out potential stares is satisfyingly prohibitive. Jason is for his eyes alone now.

Blinds down and gazes blocked, Dick crosses to Jason and grabs his shoulder, turning him until his back crashes up against the door, and Dick would have expected Jason to have a quip at the ready, would have expected himself to claim his mouth until he no longer felt the urge to say it, but Jason has nothing to say. He just stares at Dick, hunger gleaming in his eyes, and his body tenses, as if he were getting ready to pounce.

Dick preempts him, knocks his shoulder against the door again and, without taking his eyes away from Jason's, he sinks down to his knees. It feels like slow-motion, Dick's hand sliding down Jason's shoulder, his bicep, his forearm, until Jason's fingers in turn meet the soft, exposed skin of Dick's forearms. The touch is almost too intimate to bear, but he can't wrest his arm away. They stay like this for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, too many, dark gloves leaving indents on pale skin, naked fingers stealing beneath rolled-up sleeves, tickling the elbow hidden there.

The floor is cold and unforgiving, but Dick stays where he is, on his knees like a supplicant, and like a supplicant, he pleads to receive, not knowing what it is he's asking for – protection, absolution, release?

A small noise wiggles out of his tight throat, pathetic and weak, as his other hand slides up Jason's thigh. It is drawn to the bulge in Jason's pants. It looks painful, trapped in the tight confines, and Dick squeezes it, runs his thumb along the outline as if trying to soothe it. Jason exhales through his nose and his hand comes to rest on Dick's shoulder, warm even through his uniform, or maybe it's just Dick's impression, because he's boiling inside of it, sweating from the soles of his feet to the top of his brow. He wants to peel off the layers, wants to hear the gnatty whine of his zippers as he strips off first his jacket and then his pants, baring his flesh to the cold of the garage and the heat of Jason's gaze, but even though desire is clouding his mind, Dick knows he cannot take his clothes off. There's no way Jason _wouldn't_ recognize the Nightwing emblem on his chest.

Dick doesn't know which is louder – the hiss of Jason's zipper or the hiss coming out of his mouth when Dick finally takes out his cock. His relief is palpable. His shoulders sag, his head thuds back against the glass door and his fingers twitch, wanting to ball into fists. Jason's cock is thick and red, and glistening at the tip. It's also warm, almost as warm as Dick's face when he brings it close to it. The combination of musk and motor oil is heady enough to make Dick's own cock throb in his cup. 

Dick runs his tongue along Jason's pulsing length, lapping up the taste of salt and sweat, before placing open-mouthed kisses from base to tip. He sucks at the foreskin, dips his tongue into the moisture beading at the slit, and swirls it around the head as though it were an ice cream cone. It's practiced, true, but at the same time, desire is guiding Dick. The desire to please, to prove himself worthy, as if by doing this well enough he could somehow blot out the mistakes of the past, erase some of the pain, make them as though they had never been – if only for a little while.

Jason groans loudly when Dick takes him in his mouth, and his fingers dig into the back of his neck. There's no chill left in his blue eyes; in fact, they're almost watery now, as his hips tremble in his effort not to thrust. Dick hands cling to them, not holding them still but perhaps soothing them, rubbing circles as if to let Jason know it's okay, he wouldn't mind.

He keeps his mouth soft and wet as he looks up at Jason and guides his other hand to his head, too. Jason brushes his thumb over Dick's cheek in a gesture way too gentle for what they are doing, but maybe he was just wiping away a bead of sweat. Dick swallows. Jason bites back a moan. His fingers comb bangs out of Dick's eyes. Dick blinks. He misses his mask, to have more than just a layer of perspiration between him and Jason's heated gaze.

Pressing his tongue against the underside of Jason's cock, Dick sinks down until the blunt head of Jason's cock is tickling his uvula. He calms his breathing and his body's gag reflex.

"Oh shit," Jason curses as Dick's throat opens to let him sink the rest of the way in.

Dick's own cock _jumps_ in its confines. He is light-headed with desire and sure to come at the lightest of pressures, but no matter how much he rocks his hips, his cup makes it impossible to find the relief he seeks.

He forgets all about his own plight when Jason grips Dick's head in both hands and pulls out of Dick's throat. Dick makes a sound of protest but Jason shushes him, angling his head a little more as he slides across Dick's tongue.

Dick's vision is growing hazy with pleasure and he can no longer make out Jason's gaze with clarity, yet he can still feel it on his skin, as if he's scrutinizing every aspect of Dick's facial expressions to gauge how far he can go. He pushes back into Dick's throat and groans when Dick only swallows around him.

Jason curses again, louder this time, as he begins fucking Dick's face faster. Dick's eyelids flutter, and he can't keep his own moans from escaping, even though he'd much rather listen to Jason's as they rise in volume and increase in frequency.

"Shit, I'm close," Jason pushes out through clenched teeth. His voice is rough as though he were the one having his throat fucked.

Dick closes his eyes and nods. He's ready for however Jason wants it. 

When Jason spills himself in Dick's mouth, Dick swallows it all down, although he coughs from the taste of it. Jason's hips are spasming against him, his fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair and on his shoulders, raising pins and needles all across his skin.

As the last pulses subside, Jason slips out of Dick's mouth and Dick presses the back of his hand against his lips. His glove is rough against them, so he uses forearm to wipe away the spit.

His mouth feels so empty now, and his tongue is already missing the shape of Jason's cock, but it's good to catch his breath again. He slumps forward, resting his forehead against Jason's hip as if he were not strong enough to keep himself upright anymore. Perhaps he's not. Or perhaps he just needs a breather, just another moment of skin-to-skin contact.

"Huh, wow," Jason says, sounding rough like a handsaw, and clears his throat. "They teach you that at police academy? If so, you must have been an ace student."

Dick grins weakly. What can he say? He gives everything his all. And for once it seems like his all was good enough.

It's a hollow victory, though. One he feels like he had no right to earn. Duplicity is part of Dick's nature, and as such, he never thought twice about the role he'd play and the story he'd tell in order to get Jason to trust him.

Now he wonders how much different – how much more honest – their encounter would have been if Dick had confronted him not as a police officer but as Nightwing. But he couldn't. He couldn't just waltz into Jason's life and dig up his past trauma just because he's angry, just because he's hurt, or just because he wants answers.

Except, he did waltz into Jason's life unannounced, and he's made a complex mess of their relationship by sleeping with Jason. It's only a matter of time until Jason finds out who Dick really is, if he's half the man Bruce trained him to be.

Dick doesn't know what he's doing here.

It's as if he thought that by doing this, by getting close to Jason – though not necessarily _this_ close – by getting to _know_ Jason without their past or their identities getting in the way, that they could perhaps be the friends they never had the chance to be. Like he and Barbara. Or perhaps he'd thought that by brushing shoulders with Jason, some of his essence would rub off on him and make Bruce think more highly of him.

Little did he know just _how_ Jason would rub off on him.

It's all so disingenuous now. Or perhaps it only feels that way because Dick has started caring about Jason and what he might think about Dick if he learned the truth.

"I have to go."

"Oh no, you don't." Jason doesn't even have to expend much energy on stopping Dick, since Dick barely manages to get to his feet without swaying. His legs are numb. "Not until I've returned the favor."

Dick nearly falls back down because he can neither feel his feet nor his knees, but instead he falls face first against Jason's chest. Jason is only too happy to catch Dick and grins down at him in a way that makes Dick worry about how much he's planning on using his choppers. 

"I'm good," he says, and it only marginally has something to do with the image of Jason's teeth near his cock. "Seriously."

"I insist." Without waiting for a reply, he undoes Dick's belt and the movement reminds Dick just how painfully hard he still is. "Just let me find somewhere to sit, so you can—"

"No," Dick says and wraps his arms around Jason's shoulders to keep himself upright. "No more waiting. Just use your hands."

"If _you_ insist."

Dick cries out the moment his cup is gone and his cock throbs in the open air of the garage. It's aching and hot and Jason's first touch actually hurts.

"That's right, let go," Jason murmurs and pats Dick's back. "I got you."

It takes no time at all for Dick to start trembling with the need for release. Jason's fingers are strong but gentle as they coax him, inevitably, toward it. Just imagining them curled around his cock makes pleasure wrench sharply in his gut. Dick can't fight it. He comes apart with a sob that he tries to stifle against Jason's neck, to no avail.

Jason continues stroking Dick's back until feeling returns into his legs. Dick groans. No more kneeling on stone floors, he tells himself.

"Thanks for that," he says, although it makes him feel stupid right away.

"Pretty sure I should be the one thanking you." Jason nudges him with his shoulder.

"I should go now," Dick says and pushes away from Jason.

"You hungry?" Jason asks, and for some reason this reminds Dick of Alfred. He also used to try and cheer Dick up with food.

Dick has a hole in his stomach but he can get something from the kiosk nearby. Or he can order takeout. Neither sounds as good as Alfred's cooking, but few things are.

"I've got leftovers I wanted to warm up for dinner. Enough for two." Jason is already ushering Dick toward the back of the building before Dick even had the chance to open his mouth. "C'mon, you kept me down here a lot longer than I wanted to be. The least you can do is keep me company while we eat."

Dick is too wrung out to argue, but he does manage a smile. It's probably a bad idea for him to stay when his walls are this far down. One wrong word and he might clue Jason in on the true nature of his visit. On the other hand, Dick really doesn't want to be alone right now. The prospect of spending the night with someone who doesn't know who he is suits him just fine.

"I'll have a bite," Dick concedes. "But if it's no good, I'm out of here."

"Don't you worry your pretty head." Jason winks saucily. "I'm a man of many talents."

Dick rolls his eyes, once again thinking of gagging Jason. He should walk back into the garage to get a cloth rag, but perhaps Jason will have a dish towel handy upstairs. Failing that, Dick can think of a number of fun things that would shut Jason up. Food intake is only one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, ictus! It was a pleasure to write. If you're interested, I would very much like to continue this.


End file.
